The MYSTERY of No. 13a

Auckland Star, Volume LVIII, Issue 195, 19 August 1927, Page 16

The MYSTERY of No. 13a

(By Michael Carmichael)

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.

Tommy Dampierre, back In London after an absence of seven years in the Argentine, is put down by his taximan during a thick fog outside a house with the number 13a, that of his sister In Upper Broad Street The door is ajar, and Tony is surprised to find nobody within. After smoking a cigarette, he determines to explore the house. All the rooms appear to be unoccupied, but in one bedroom Tony finds the body of a man with a pointed beard and in evening dress stretched across the bed. The man is apparently dead. Tony at once leaves the house, and with some difficulty owing to the thickness of the fog. at last finds a police-constable. The latter aprees to go with him to 13a, Upper Broad Street, and. after wandering about in the fog for some time, the two reach the house. Tony then discovers that the taximan had put him down outside the wrong house—No. 13a in another street. He and the policeman at once endeavour to find the house in which a dead man has been left, but they are unable to tind it. Subsequently Dampierre is rung up by Scotland Yard. He is shown some photographs which convince him that the dead man at No. 13a of the unknown street must have been Sir Bartle Armstrong, the guardian of Enid Chilton, a beautiful girl to whom he is introduced, and with whom he immediately falls in love. Enid, however, is engaged to a Captain Cecil Huntley, to whom Dampierre takes an instinctive dislike. Enid and Dampierre lunch together at the Ritz. They part after the meal, and Dampierre. who has to go to Bond Street, to make some purchases. is astounded to see walking briskly ahead of him the murdered man of the mysterious house. No. 13a. He follows the man to Briton Street, where he enters No. 13a. Hesitating a moment to make certain of the number, Dampierre hurries to Bond Street, where he telephones to Inspector Pym, of Scotland Yard, to Join him. Together they go back to Briton Street, where they are admitted by an extremely pretty parlourmaid. Presently they are received by a dignified man of fifty-five or fifty-six, who tells them that his name is Mason, that he is a stockbroker, and that to his knowledge nobody has recently entered the house. The maid confirms this. When Dampierre and Pym regain the street again, the former gives a sudden exclamation. He then tells Pym that he Is certain this was the house he entered during the fog because he remembers a bronze idol at the end of the hall. Taking tea a little later with Enid Chilton and her fiance. Dampierre relates what has happened. Huntley starts, recovers himself, and takes his leave.

CHAPTER VIIL For the moment, neither Enid nor Dam pierre spoke. To Diimpierre, indeed, there seemed some almost physical menace in the silence, and he walked over to the window, pulling back the curtain to look out into the night. He saw Huntley hurry down the steps of the house into the foggy lamplight and walk rapidly off in the direction of Lord's. Lord's, with its crowded memories of happy, careless days spent watching cricket. With a frown, Dampierre let the cur tain drop back into place. He f«- It somehow an extreme reluctance to discuss the situation now with Enid, for the news which he had brought so eagerly had taken on an aspect of illusory complexity coloured a good deal by his instinctive and ridiculous distrust of Huntley. And yet, what else could they possibly discuss? Her voice caused him to turn back towards her with a start. "Isn't there— isn't there some explanation of—of all this mystery!" she despairingly demanded. "Oh, of course!" He moved a step or two nearer, as if propelled by the desire of reassuring her, but something in her altitude of dejection as she stood with one foot resting on the fender, staring at the fire, abruptly checked him. "There must be some absurdly simple explanation somewhere—somewhere," he repeated slowly, struggling for conviction. "You mean," she said, "that it will turn out to be one of those things one laughs at afterwards and wonders why one ever took them seriously, like a great tragedy in childhood which one smiles at later?" He nodded. "I don't see why not. After all, it isn't as if Sir Bartle Armstrong weren't alive." "Then you believe that, honestly and truly?" Enid made a little open gesture with both hands. "I've believed that all along," she added wistfully. "Oh, I've seen him right enough," conceded Dampierre. "I don't pretend to understand it, still " he hesitated for a second "Still, we've got that, anyway. He isn't dead. That's just what's so devilishly mysterious about the whole business. What's he doing, then?" Enid groaned. "Ah, if we only knew!" "If we only did!" reiterated Dampierre. "We'll have to wait for that, however," he went on; "in fact, I suppose that's all there is for us to do." "I suppose it is," she listlessly agreed. Enid stared despondently into the fire again, slim, glamorous in the firelight, silent. It was profoundly still outside, and only the occasional sound of passing motors, homeward bound, or the familiar double knocking of the postman came to them through the frosty, lamp-lit darkness of the winter night like ghostly echoes of the casual, cheerful world they had known once. Now Dampierre was silent too—now pacing that comfortable big room to and fro. The more he thought about it the more curious Huntley's whole demeanour seemed that afternoon, considered in the clear, dispassionate light of later on. Dampierre lit another cigarette and glanced at Enid. She was engaged to Huntley, yet he blocked every offer of assistance, every theory and suggestion which might be of any use in clearing up the mystery of her guardian's disappearance. A, wave of resentment swept over Dampierre as he thought of it. Except for himself, Enid seemed so utterly alone. He turned to her suddenly, impulsiveely, throwing away his cigarette. "Enid—l say, do you mind if I call you Enid?" She met his glance with grave friendliness "I wish you would," she said, sitting down on the sofa in front of the fire and making room for him beside her. "It's perfectly silly—you know, calling each other 'mister' and 'miss' all the time." "That's what I feel, exactly," Dampierre replied. There was a pause. "You've been wonderful about all —all this," she went on presently. "I have a twinge of conscience every time I think how much trouble you've taken trying to help when you probably have so many other thinzs to do." 6 "Oh, I haven't done half as much as I'd like to." *But you did come over on business, didn't you?" she insisted. She looked at him almost apologetically, her clear eyes meeting his with a 6hy confidence and candour. She liked this tall young man with his straight moutu and steady,

frank, grey eyes. He seemed to count for something in her life already. "And you haven't been back in England for seven years, have you?" she added. "No, not since the war. I've been out in the Argentine the whole time." He paused a moment to admire her competent, slim hands. "Have you ever been there 1" She shook her head. "I'd like to," she replied. "I've always heard that it was very jolly and romantic." "It's fun—especially if you like horses." He talked on, how long he did not know, telling her about his own estancia and the pampas and the gauchos with their silver spurs buckled over their bare feet. The peace in the room was unbroken except for the rise and fall of his voice, the sound of her occasional questions. The fire had sunk to a red glow where crimson flags waved from grey castles and diamond-eyed dragons winked in mysterious caves. The thick damask curtains shut out the world. It was only the mellowed silver notes of the clock striking seven that reminded Dampierre of the existence of time and the rhythm of everyday life that was dependent on it. He got to his feet. "I had no idea it was so late." She smiled at him. "Does it matter so much?" she asked with a faint headshake. "I'm sorry if I've kept you." "Nonsense." "No, seriously, it's been wonderfully sweet of you to stay and help me forget for a little," she told him. Dampierre smiled down at her, curiously at his ease, curiously happy. He was just on the point of suggesting lunch the following day when there was a knock at the door and the butler came in with a telegram on a silver salver. "tor you, miss," he said. "The boy is waiting for an answer, if there is any." She tore it open and a sudden exclamation escaped her. "There is no answer," she said, and handed it to Dampierre without another word. Dampierre took it to the light with a strange presentiment of suspicion he was careful not to show in his face. He read the words by the last gleam of fire: "Don't worry, will explain later. Home shortly. Bartle Armstrong." The telegram had been handed in at the Vere Street post office at, Dampierre noticed carefully, 5.55. (To be continued daily.)